The Calamitous Involvement of a Chocolate Cake
by millennium-night
Summary: The Scarecrow is freezing, children are crying and egoism rules the day - and all that because of a chocolate cake! A stand-alone prequel to "Fiction Meets Reality".


_A/N: This is some sort of prequel to my story "Fiction Meets Reality" as it features a little child called Amber, but there is no direct connection since she is too young to remember seeing Crane, whom she will obsess about in her teens.  
>Originally, this was supposed to be my entry for a Batman literature contest, but I didn't finish it in time. The task was to use at least 10 out of 15 words and build them into the plot. I chose <em>to glint, foster, gaunt, yeast, to fade, numb, gold, flamingo, oak, mutter_ and _blunder_._

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><p>It was a remarkably cold October day. The snow covered the rugged rooftops with a thick, white layer - and it still continued to fall as if it was eager to devour all proof of mankind. Long ago the cars had stopped their activity on the streets, which nature had bleached, worn out and trenched with time. No reasonable creature dared to set foot in this inhospitable landscape any more. No one but Jonathan Crane, that is, for he constantly felt himself drawn to this place by some magic force. It was a poor suburb of a neighbouring town of Gotham, a spot of densely packed skyscrapers within an otherwise mostly rural environment. Fortuna had turned her back on those who lived here, and society had simply left them stranded.<p>

If it was this undeniable connection to his own past that attracted him, he did not know. During his college days Crane had been forced to adapt to a similarly low living standard. How dearly he still remembered the peculiar smell of yeast when passing a bakery, promising fresh bread! Paying the bills had already been quite a task, and thus he had learned to appreciate his food properly. It had also been then that he had developed his gusto for the rare delight of chocolate, which had left him never since. Momentarily, the memory became so clear, so realistic that he could almost perceive the scent in the cool air.

Not until a few seconds later Jonathan realized that the sensation was in fact real, and, curious, he traced it back to its origins. Soon, near the beginnings of rather agriculturally orientated buildings, he reached a big farmhouse which, although it was clearly past its prime, still bore some of its former glory in the old facade. The walls were painted in a soft lime green while the shutters of the windows as well as the front door were kept in a matching - even if fading - tone of champagne. A big garden surrounded it and was as snow-covered as everything else, safe for several strangely shaped holes in the fluffy carpet that had obviously been made by playing children. In contrast to most other trees along the street, the big, ancient oak tree in the centre of the yard still clung to its canopy of dry, withering leaves in a hopeless summoning of strength.

However, it did not take this striking landmark for him to remember this familiar building, for he had been roaming these cheerless streets many times before, seeking their melancholy. According to the sign at the main entrance with the picture of its logo, the golden silhouette of a flamingo, it was a foster home for psychologically abused children, pushed to this gaunt piece of earth on the fringe of society.

Stealthily the villain climbed over the rusty fence, which, considering its height and his tall build, did not take him much more than a big step. Actually, there was a gate at the front yard for the public, but, as always, he preferred to come and go freely and undetected. Soon he found what he was looking for: One of the windows at ground level belonging to some sort of kitchen had been left open, and someone had placed a rich, brown chocolate cake on the window sill for cooling down. On its flat surface there was a bold, pink sugar writing saying 'Happy Birthday, Amber'.

He stared at the delicious dessert for a while, frowning and squinting his eyes in a process of decision. From inside he heard the mutters of many different voices, now and then interrupted by the hearty laugh of a child. Eventually, shooting a sly glance about himself, Jonathan's hand jolted forward and broke a steaming, chocolatey crumb from the cake. It felt warm against the skin of his fingers, which were numb and stiff in their movements due to the cold.

Crane was about to put it into his mouth when suddenly he paused, having noticed a silent observer of his private moment out of the corner of his eyes. His first urge was to escape, but seeing the little girl standing right in front of him inside the kitchen somehow made him freeze on the spot. For a few seemingly endless moments she kept watching him with her emerald orbs. Then she raised her tiny voice and asked this odd, single question, "Why don't you eat a piece with the sugar writing?"

"A piece with the sugar writing...?" the villain repeated with surprise. Oh, he had forgotten how naïve these children could be! "I wanted to leave it for you," he replied playfully, eating his crumb in a demonstratively slow way. Her presence made him feel strangely at ease – he doubted that she would endanger his anonymity.

The little girl frowned sceptically as if pondering on this, then she nodded in agreement. "This is my cake," she changed the topic and pointed her short arm at said object. "Auntie Monica says it's for my birthday."

"I see," Jonathan murmured, and an impish spark was glinting in his eyes when he hit on an idea how to get some more cake without her alarming whoever else was in this house. He bent over the window sill to be able to talk less loudly. "But your birthday is about sharing with others," he explained. "Consider me one of your birthday guests, whom you should share your cake with."

The girl opened her mouth to answer something when a tall, strongly-built woman appeared in the doorway behind her. It was not her outraged scream that made him flinch but rather the realization that he was capable of committing such a blunder as risking to be recognized in bright daylight without his scarecrow mask.

Immediately he fled from the yard, haunted by the child's terrified face and the woman's hateful insults.

About an hour later he came back, once again watchfully sneaking over the fence to the window where the cake was still placed, forgotten and almost cold. From inside he heard adults shouting and a child crying pitifully. There was a ruthless coolness in his eyes that matched the weather's. Without hesitation he snatched the cake, the reason he had come there in the first place, and took it away with him.

This was the last time anyone would ever see him near this _poor suburb of a neighbouring town of Gotham_.


End file.
